


alliteration

by slorpstoes



Category: i mean what? huh? yeah
Genre: no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 03:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slorpstoes/pseuds/slorpstoes
Summary: alan x depression? yeah i'd ship it





	alliteration

I have trouble breathing. I feel so numb.

I don’t want to open my eyes. Not again.

I just want to stay here, where I don’t bother anyone.

I don’t want to wake up. What’s the point? Nothing changes.

Things would be so much better if…

No. I’m not allowed to think like that. I’ll let everyone down. If I don’t do anything, I’ll be a waste of space.

I get up with a slightly woozy head. I slept in my school clothes. I should change them…

Whatever. There’s no point. I’ll just do the same thing tonight. And again tomorrow…

Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother. With anything.

But I know I don’t deserve to think like that. I should just go to school and function like a normal person and not let anyone down.

There’s no one in the kitchen. It feels horribly empty. Bleak.

Scary.

I don’t really feel like eating, so I just grab my bag and leave.

 

“So cold…”

It’s kinda chilly outside. I would’ve taken a jacket, but I would’ve also gotten a uniform strike because we can’t actually afford a school jacket. Mum doesn’t like it when I get strikes, and I don’t either. It garners unwanted attention.

I see some of my classmates walking the street across the road. Someone makes a comment, then everyone laughs. Looks like an animated conversation.

What am I? I’m not jealous…

It’s just that… I wish I could be with them. I wish I could make people laugh like that. I wish I could go and talk to them.

But they’d reject me. I just know it. They all think I’m weird. They all call me weird. They wouldn’t want to talk to me.

I don’t deserve to talk to them.

I keep walking, but I can’t take my eyes off them. I wonder what they’re talking about… Is it me? Are they judging me? I walk weird. ‘ _Look at that guy, he has weird feet. And small hands. He’s so ugly and disgusting and stupid.’_

No. That’s ridiculous. How could I even allow myself to believe they’d be thinking about me at all? So, so self-centred. They don’t even know I’m here. No one does.

People used to talk to me back in Year 2. They’d ask me about my day. They’d ask me about my grades. They never asked me to play with them, but that’s okay. Sometimes they’d call me a freak, and that was okay, too. At least they talked to me.

That doesn’t happen anymore.

I’m stupid, so I don’t have many friends. That’s okay. I sit on the sidelines and watch, and that’s what I deserve.

I do have one friend, though. She’s really nice and chubby and she doesn’t call me weird. Her name is Amy Adams. _Alliteration!_ is the first thing I said to her. I’m grateful she still talks to me after that. We hang out occasionally, but I still don’t know that much about her. She used to be very popular a few years ago until she sold her big house, so now she sulks at the bottom of the social pile, which I don’t think she deserves at all because she’s very nice. I deserve to be at the bottom. And I think I would be, too, if people actually talked to me. Maybe it’s a good thing, though, because then only I have to know how horrible of a person I am.

 

Amy approaches me from the distance, wearing a blue muffler. It looks very cute.

She says hi. I say hi back. I don’t have to worry about sounding weird.

“Looks like I didn’t catch your route today,” she’s saying.

I shake my head. “Sorry, I left a bit later.”

Amy smiles. “That’s okay.”

She’s so kind. I wish I could be like her. She’s pretty and nice and all I am is stupid.

There’s a silence between us. I wring my fingers. I hate it when this happens. If I was a good conversationalist, I would always be able to come up with something to say and I’d never be speechless and I’d be fun and interesting to talk to. But I’m not good enough for that. That’s why I don’t have many friends.

I don’t even know if Amy is my friend sometimes. Maybe she’s just really nice. Maybe she actually hates me and doesn’t have the guts to say it.

But I shouldn’t think like that. Maybe she... likes being with me—

No. No, she definitely doesn’t.

No one does.

I swallow. Sentences float around in my brain, but I’m not confident enough to say any of them. Silence we go.

Suddenly, Amy laughs. “So,” she says, “your mum’s comin’ back tonight, hey? Isn’t that exciting?”

Oh, she is, isn’t she? I guess I am sort of excited. I’m also really nervous.

… I’m more nervous. I’ll probably just let her down again.

I don’t say any of this. Instead, I say, “I guess…” like a total downer and I can tell I’ve ruined the moment.

“Don’t you like it when she comes home?” Amy frowns.

Did I make her worry? Oh no.

“Oh, um, of course I like it… it’s nice, it’s just…” My tongue doesn’t want to work. Not even good enough to make a few words. “Hhugh…”

No, I don’t deserve to voice my opinion. That’s stupid. I don’t deserve to have these kinds of thoughts. _I love my mum and I’m thrilled she’s coming back home_ , I should’ve just said that. I’m an idiot.

“You’re so lucky, though,” Amy says anyway. She’s so good at this kind of stuff. (Y’know… talking. And stuff.) She sighs. “I just wonder when Dad’s coming back.”

“He isn’t,” I say. “He’s gone. That’s how it works.”

She smiles. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” I laugh. It sounds fake.

I should just stop talking. I’m wasting her time.

We cross the street together and make our way to school.

 

The first hour whizzes by, and before I know it, I find myself seated next to Amy again. I always sit next to her. It’s pathetic. She must think I’m a real loser.

She’s amazing, so she’d probably be able to sit with anybody she wanted. Why does she put up with me? Does she feel sorry for me? Whatever it is, I’m very grateful.

I like sitting with Amy. She’s like a magic spell that washes away all my worries.

Well, actually, that’s not all true, but she does make me worry less because she doesn’t think I’m weird.

Amy cracks open a muesli bar. Assorted berries. She tilts it towards me.

“Want some?” she says. “I learnt how to split this thing last week.”

I don’t have an appetite. Just the thought of food makes my stomach churn.

“Sure!”

But I can’t make her feel bad. This is the least I could do.

She passes me a — just as advertised — pristine, even-split half of muesli.

I take a big bite and I regret it immediately. My stomach hurts… I really don’t feel like eating at all.

And I know I can’t take food for granted, and I know I should eat it all, eat it all, eat it all, but—

I drop the half.

Amy gives me a semi-confused look.

I smile. “It’s good!”

“So good you dropped it?”

“Yeah!”

She chuckles. Good. That’s good. I feel so much better already.

Then, silence befalls us again. I think somewhere within the void Amy points out a flyer and I absentmindedly nod, but no matter how hard I try, I really can’t get into it today. I’m not feeling it at all. I’m not usually this much of a downer, but today I’m a bit occupied by Mum’s visit.

I haven’t done anything yet, have I? I should get a cake or something. Throw up a banner. Write a speech.

I think I have about fifteen dollars left. I can buy something good with that. If I skip lunch, I’ll definitely have enough money.

I decide to give up on the banner because the last time I pulled something like that, I got the lettering wrong and it fell over and hit Mum in the head. I’m too stupid to do banners. I just wish I had any talent at all.

I feel a slight nudging.

“Psst… Cloudhead…”

“Oh,” I say. “Is it the end of recess already?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Amy starts walking off to class. I pick up the muesli half and stuff it in my bag. I’ll eat it for lunch if I’m up to it.

 

After school, I make my way to the convenience store. It’s about a block away from home. When I was younger, I used to bet Mum I’d be able to skip all the way there and back. I couldn’t. I got failure and two very sore legs. I guess I’ve always been really stupid.

As I weave through the small streets, I feel watched. Am I paranoid? Everyone is staring at me. Am I some kind of monster?

I probably am. A horrible, horrible monster.

I stop at a tiny cut in the street. The store’s around here. It slots in perfectly… like a nice puzzle piece. It’s very inconspicuous, so not many people notice it. The owner is a funny old man who always has a good joke or two up his sleeves. I like him a lot.

Mum and I would stop here all the time, and I’d try on every pair of sunglasses we could find, and Mum would take pictures and post them on Facebook even though I’d told her not to advertise her son on the internet. But she’d _laugh_. She was so happy back then. Always laughing and smiling… Back then I could make her smile.

Will it ever be the way it was before? Things change. I changed. I’m trying my best.

But trying my best isn’t enough.

Mum doesn’t really smile anymore, and it’s probably my fault.

I wish Dad was still here. Maybe he and I together would be able to make her smile. Maybe it’d be fun. Maybe—

I walk in. The door makes a soft ringing and I already feel self-conscious. Everyone is definitely looking at me now. I love this shop, but I just wish it didn’t have that bell. I don’t want anyone to know I exist.

No. That’s so selfish. The bell’s there for a reason. It makes the owner’s job a lot easier, and here I am, wishing it was gone.

Everything’s here for a reason. Oh, I hope cake’s here, too. I’ve got seventeen fifty-five.

I navigate the dangerous isles — avoiding any eye contact at all — and trying hard to remain unseen. I really hate shopping. Everyone looks at you. It’s almost like you’re one of the items on the shelves. But I’ve developed a foolproof plan to stay out of Employee Radar. ‘Tuck and roll.’

Well, not _roll_. I’m not good enough to roll. It just sounds cooler that way. Someone like Amy could pull off a roll, I think. For me it’s just tuck… and tuck.

Ah! I can see it, just out of the corner of my eye. The sweets isle. The dreamland of everything confection. I hope. They should have cake, right? I don’t quite remember what kind of cake is Mum’s favourite… Useless, useless brain. I couldn’t even remember her birthday last year. She was so disappointed. I can’t let her down again…

I slink over to the refrigerated goods. It’s chilly; absentmindedly, I rub my arms. Looking over the shelves… Oh! What’s this? Strawberry shortcake. She’s a cartoon character, isn’t she? I reach up and retrieve the cake. I used to watch that show a lot. Miss Shortcake had so many friends… she was loved by all. A perfect girl… A perfect life…

I used to believe that could happen for me, someday, too. That someday it would just magically work out. That someday happiness would just knock at my door. I shake my head.

But it’s only fiction. There’s no way real life could be that easy.

The shortcake’s probably not the right choice. I have to put it back. Mum doesn’t even have a sweet tooth. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I wonder if they have… a savoury cake. Is that a thing? Is carrot cake considered savoury? I wish I paid more attention in class. We must’ve covered this before.

I wish I knew how to cook. Then I could make Mum all sorts of lovely dishes, and not have to spend time at a convenience store, picking out food she might not even like. What kind of food _does_ she like?

This is bad. This is very, very bad. Why can’t I remember anything? Why does nothing come to mind? I swear I knew more about Mum than this.

I hate this. I hate myself. I wish I was better.

I wish I was better.

_I wish I was better._

A sigh slips into the air. It’s mine.

Maybe cake isn’t the right call. I should choose something else. What else can I buy with seventeen fifty-five, I wonder…

Huh?

My phone buzzes.

_‘Be home in half an hour, sweetie.’_

Oh. It’s Mum. Oh no. I still haven’t gotten her anything! I need to stall for time. What can I do? Should I text her something? _‘Please get caught up in traffic so I can buy you a bad gift.’_

No. That’s stupid. It’s my fault I couldn’t make up my mind. Indecisive. Horrible. Why do I fail at everything?

Ugh. No. See? That’s… That is also the problem. I spend too much time whining about how horrible or disgusting or stupid I am instead of fixing anything! I’ve been alive for twelve years! Everyone _else_ has it together — why can’t I?

But I’m too stupid to fix anything. I’ll just make it worse. I’ll just become a worse person. And everyone will hate me even more.

Maybe it’s better to not do anything at all.

Another sigh. I glance down at the screen. 5:02. Now may be the right time to go home.

I bid a small goodbye to the owner — “Have a good one, son,” he says — and I step outside. Jee, it’s dark. Walking around nightfall has always been a delight for me. I get to watch all the lamp-posts light up, all the houses go bright, and all the cars twinkle in the distance… like little stars in my very own galaxy. At night, I feel small. At night, I feel like nothing.

At night, I get to believe, even for a second, that I’ve faded away.

I make my way back down the dimly illuminated streets, making sure not to step on any cracks on the ground. Twelve years isn’t enough to know if _all_ superstitions aren’t real.

The lights are on in Amy’s house. She lives about a street away from me. I like to consider us neighbours, even though we’re really not. It’s just that the word ‘neighbour’ has always had this special feel to it. Being neighbours gives you an otherworldly bond. Being neighbours means an unspoken permit to know absolutely everything about one another. Since we’re not really neighbours, I’d say maybe Amy and I only share the otherworldly bond. She’s the only kid my age I even have a bond with.

I wonder what she’s doing. I can’t quite see her through the window. Is it homework? I wish I could go drop by. I want to say goodnight…

But I’ll just bother her again.

I shake off the thoughts and make the final push home.

 

Mum isn’t home yet. That’s good. Means she won’t shock me like last time. It was the loudest I’d screamed in a while.

Shopping really takes it out of me. I feel so exhausted already, and it’s only 5:20. I just want to sleep…

I don’t even bother with the light. I let myself fall on the couch and I look at the ceiling. Everything feels so eerie… It doesn’t feel like home at all.

It’s still very cold.

I can’t bring myself to fetch a jacket. What’s the point? If I’m freezing, it’s because I deserve to freeze.

And I start to think — did we have homework today? We probably did, but I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t listening, and I wasn’t listening because I couldn’t pay attention, and I couldn’t pay attention because I’m stupid.

Yeah. I think I’ll live with that. ‘ _Stupid_.’ It fits. It describes Alan Giffard perfectly. I’m just stupid. I’ll live stupid, and I’ll die stupid.

Oh, I do hope I die soon. I don’t quite know how much longer I can stand living only to disappoint.

I sniff. Am I crying? That’s no good. I can’t be crying on the sofa, five minutes before Mum’s supposed to make her grand entrance. I’ll be a downer again.

“I can’t be negative all the time. There are people who are more depressed than I am!” I wipe my tears. “Mum wouldn’t want a sad, pathetic failure. I’ll make an amazing welcome!”

I don’t believe in what I’m saying in the slightest. Dr. Singh says self-motivation is a key concept I need to grasp, but right now I really can’t see the benefits at all. What good is self-motivation when there’s nothing to motivate? Self-motivation is for winners. Alan Giffard isn’t a winner.

My spiralling thoughts uncoil when I hear another soft buzzing. Notification? Text?

_‘Be there soon, dear!’_

Oh, this one has a love heart emoji. That’s cute. Mum needs to learn to spend emojis on those who deserve them. 

The doorbell goes off. That’s Mum, isn’t it? Oh no. I can feel the nerves brewing already. My palms go sweaty and pupils start to dilate and I probably look like a toddler stepping outside for the first time. I swallow my heart, walk up to the door, and silently thank Mum for waiting, instead of unlocking it herself. Apparently Dr. Singh said something about the lack of control in my life, so being able to open the door on my own would benefit my mental health somehow. Sounds like blasphemy, because it’s literally just a door.

1, 2, 3… I fiddle with my keys… and there we go. The door is opened, and there stands Mum, weary-eyed. _‘Welcome back!’_ , _‘Hi, Mum!’_ , _‘I missed you!’_ — every valid phrase dips in and out of my head, but my mouth decides to pump out a tiny: “Umm… hi. Mum.”

She looks disappointed. Okay. Me, too.

“Hi, Alan.” Mum presses me in for a quick hug.

She looks so tired. Is that my fault? I forgot to do something, didn’t I? I let her down. It’s my fault.

Mum works so hard and all she has to come back to is me. Useless, stupid me. She hates me, I reckon. She regrets giving birth to this… this _thing_. 

She sets her bags down and slumps into the couch across from me. The fading moonlight streaming in from the window focuses on her heavy eye-bags and skinny cheekbones and makes my stomach twist itself into a tight knot.

“How have you been, Alan?” she says, sounding like more like a therapist than a mother.

“Good,” I say.

“Are there any new changes in the _World of Alan_? Advancements?”

 _‘Friends?’_ is what I know she wants to say.

“No.”

“You’re not anxious?” she asks. At some point, Dr. Singh told Mum to stop asking if I was feeling anxious, so she stopped phrasing it as a direct question.

“Kinda.”

“Can you manage any more than one-word sentences for your dear mother?”

I look down. ‘ _No_ ,’ is what I’m thinking, but I refrain from saying it because it’s a one-word sentence.

Mum sighs. “Okay,” she says, which, funnily enough, is also a one-word sentence.

Conversations always go like this. Mum asks how I am, I say I’m good (if I’m feeling especially brave, I’ll even say I’m “great”), Mum tries to kick the conversation along, me and my horrible mouth shut it down, she gives me a disappointed look, then the air disperses into silence.

Now, in current time, we reach the Silence. Awkward Silence. Actually, well, now that I think about it, this isn’t even Awkward Silence anymore — it’s Scary, Freakish Silence because normal people know how to _hold_ conversations with their freaking — sorry — mother. I’m not even good enough for that. I feel nauseated and disgusting, but also pathetic; stupid enough to die.

My stomach twists again. It’s like a lasso swung around my chest. Or a snake. I can feel Mum’s eyes on me and it makes me want to throw up.

Mum ends the staring with a conclusive sigh, then stands up, claps her hands, and makes her way to the kitchen.

“I’ll start making dinner, okay, Alan?” she calls out to me.

‘Alan.’ She’s said my name four times now. I’ve noticed she doesn’t call me ‘Alan’ over text. She calls me ‘sweetie’ and ‘dear’ and ‘darling’. Everything but ‘Alan’. I like it better that way. Then it feels like I can escape from this pathetic body, escape from my pathetic self, for a while, and be someone who isn’t Alan. Someone who is loved. Someone who deserves love.

I hate my name and she hates it, too. Maybe she calls me Alan because she can’t even stand to call me ‘sweetie’ face to face.

The snake gives another twist. I consider giving Mum a foreword, but my chest aches with the thought of even saying another word.

I escape to my room before my stomach can threaten Vomit again.

 

There’s nothing special about my room, really. Just run of the mill pre-teen stuff. I think. I think the only thing I’m lacking is a few posters; I don’t hang up posters because they make me feel stupid. Posters means I have to print things. Put them on my wall. I don’t deserve interests. A bleak, white room suits me best.

When I was younger I used to want a bunkbed. I liked the idea of jumping from top to bottom, climbing up to the top again, going absolutely mad on the floor. But now I know better. Top bunks are very high, and jumping from them results in a 35% chance of injury, and we really can’t afford hospital fees as-is. And it’s stupid, anyway. There’s only one of me. Only child. No need for a bunkbed.

Mum says I should personalise my room. Make it… ‘me’. Sounds like a great idea. One problem: I don’t know who ‘me’ is.

I don’t want to leave a lasting impression on this world. I want to leave the way I came. Forgotten.

My head gets heavy, so I flop down on the floor, and spread out my arms like the tentacles of an octopus. I wriggle them around for a while, until my brain reminds me I could get carpet burn and I stop. My fingers crawl over to my phone and I lift it up above my face the way I know I’m not supposed to do, then flick through my music library for a good song. I really only use my phone for music and the occasional Mum Text. Music also helps me distance myself. Sometimes it feels like the only thing I do when I’m not self-pitying is disassociation.

I sigh. Nothing. Maybe I don’t need music right now. _Maybe you don’t deserve music right now._

Yeah… Music is for cheering up. I’m not sad. Nothing’s happened. I feel disgusted even thinking about it.

What do I do now? Just lie on the ground? I should do something with myse…

I don’t have the energy for that. My body feels like its standard self — broken and insufficient in all the usual ways — but my brain feels sloppy and tired, like the noodle legs of a post-marathon runner. And all I did was go to the store. I guess I really am doomed to be a shut-in.

This isn’t productive. This doesn’t do any good. I feel so bad. And so tired. And I want to do something! But I can’t.

As per usual. Alan Giffard never lets me do the things I want.

I doze into some strange, half-sleep mode, where my brain is off in shutdown but my body still receives a flaky connection to this earth. I’m lightly awoken by Mum poking her head through the door.

“Dinner’s ready,” I hear her say.

“Okay.”

She kneels down beside me.

“You feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay then.” She stands back up. “Come out when you’re ready.”

“Okay.”

Then she leaves, gently closing the door behind her.

 

I would’ve been able to lie there all evening if I’d wanted to, but there was no point keeping Mum waiting. I emerge meekly from my room and shuffle over to the creaky wooden chairs sporadically scattered around the dinner table. I lower myself down; Mum eyes me with acknowledgement, but doesn’t say a thing.

 _‘What’s this we’ve got here?’_ I want to say, but I’m sitting here tongue-tied instead. The stomach snake is back, and it’s hissing its taunts at any words that even fathom release.

“Rice, beans, and eggs,” Mum informs me, like she’s got some mind reader stuffed in her eyeballs. “Well, actually, one egg. We’ll split it, okay?”

I nod. Mum does the ‘okay?’ thing a lot. Also recommended by Dr. Singh. _‘Give him input in the conversation, no matter how small.’_ I don’t know why she bothers with it at all — I don’t mind being ignored.

The rice looks store-bought. It’s all dry and pointy; it must be a dodgy off-brand. That’s good — it would’ve been cheaper, then.

My stomach still sits in the same ‘empty, yet filled to the brim’ state. I can’t imagine eating a single bite. It’s the same situation from recess, but also not. Circumstances are different this time.

This time, I definitely have to finish this. Mum spent her time cooking when she could’ve done something else. Mum came home today when she could’ve just stayed upstate.

I start to pick away at my rice. Definitely dreading it. The snake twists around and around and around. It hisses. It convulses. I really don’t want to eat. I really don’t want to eat!

 _Eat it_ , the snake says. _For Mum_.

For Mum.

_For Mum._

I stuff it into my mouth and chew in the smallest, quietest way possible.

I wasn’t ready for that I wasn’t ready for that I wasn’t ready for that I wasn’t ready for that.

It feels like poison on my tongue. It digs at the walls of my mouth, begging to slide down my throat, to drag its dagger down to my stomach, to jump aboard the snake and take control. It could kill me. _No it can’t_. This could kill me. _Food can’t kill you_. Off-brand rice! Off-brand rice! It could’ve actually been poisoned! This could kill me!

_Well then, why are you afraid? If you die, it’s because you deserve it._

My face burns. There’s something pricking at my eyes, a rat waiting to be set free. Tears? I can’t hate food that much, can I? But that muesli bar was the first thing I’d eaten in days…

Because, what’s the point of eating? The point of breathing? The point of living? There’s no point. There’s no point, for someone like me…

But that’s the thing about bodies. Human bodies. Human instinct. It wants to keep living. It keeps breathing, even if I don’t want it to. Nothing ever works the way I want it to.

A part of me considers opting out of dinner. Saving it all for Mum, someone who deserves it. She made it, she should eat it. But then I start to remember the last time I did that: the way she frowned, the way she furrowed her eyebrows, the way she looked at me like… like she was concerned. I hate hurting her. I hate making her feel helpless. I hate it.

I notice Mum’s been looking at me, again. The same way. The concern. I smile, and swallow. It’s down. The poison is making its way through my veins right now. If it’s going to kill me, I hope it does it fast.

_But what about Mum?_

What about _Mum_?

Oh, crap, I hadn’t thought about Mum! Has she eaten anything yet? Has she swallowed? Oh, god, no, I wasn’t looking! Is… Is she chewing? Oh no. I think she is. I think she’s chewing right now. I can’t lose her! She can’t die from this! From freaking off-brand rice!

You know, well, maybe there’s a chance there’s nothing wrong with the ri—

No. There is. There is there is there is. You remember the taste. You ate it. It was definitely poisoned. _Both you and Mum are going to die because you were too foolish to warn her._ I can’t be the reason she dies.

It might not kill her. _It definitely will_. It just tasted bad… it… it’s because I don’t ea—

_It’s going to kill her._

And now I’m sweating all over the table. How much bacteria is in sweat? Would it interfere with her structural system? Would it quicken the death?

No, no, I’ve sweated on her before it’s all fine there’s nothing to worry ab—

_But maybe the poison has altered her microbiota. Made it more vulnerable. Don’t touch her don’t touch her hands off the table don’t touch anythi—_

“Alan, are you alright?”

Mum’s voice. Mum. She’s still alive she’s still here.

Oh god.

Does she look okay?

She looks fine. It hasn’t killed her.

 _It hasn’t killed her_ yet _._

“Is the rice poisoned?” I say.

“What?”

“Is the rice poisoned?”

“Alan, I don’t know what—“

“IS THE RICE POISONED, _MUM_?”

I’m screaming. I screamed. I’m a freak. I’m a goddamn freak.

Mum’s eyes. On me. I don’t look at her. Can’t look at her. Won’t look at her. Never looking at her again.

“Alan, what is your problem?” I can faintly hear her say. I feel myself getting smaller and smaller. “What actually is your problem? Why do you make everything so hard? Why can’t you just eat?”

I don’t say anything.

“Do you have any clue how _exhausting_ you are sometimes?”

‘Sometimes’. All the time.

I can’t hear her anymore. The edges of my vision creep in. Black. Black. Black. Smiling. Laughing.

She’s laughing at me. Pointing at me. Then—

“You’re worthless,” she’s saying.

“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” she’s saying.

My throat tightens up. The snake? Has it moved up here, too?

Mum tells me to die.

The snake tells me to die.

“The world is better off without you,” they both say.

Die. Die. Die. _Die die die die die_.

Every limb of mine rattles and shakes. _They’re right, you know. They’re right._

Leave, leave, I have to leave…

I get out of my chair. They sneer at me. I have to leave.

Bathroom. _Go to the bathroom._

I go to the bathroom.

Mum calls out to me again, but this time it comes in the form of: “Alan, I’m sorry.”

I throw up.

 

I don’t know how long I spend in the bathroom. I don’t want to leave. I overreacted. Again. Mum… she hates me, doesn’t she? That’s okay.

That’s okay.

I bury my face in my hands. It feels like something’s horribly wrong… but maybe I’ve always been like this. An anxious, useless burden. Again, nothing has changed.

I make my way up and I drink a bit of water at the sink. I don’t even taste it on my tongue. It slides down my throat, then dives into my stomach, where it sits alone, spare for the one spoonful of rice that wasn’t even poisoned at all. I’m so stupid. I’m not even just ‘stupid’ anymore… there’s another word for it. But I’ll never be able to find it.

I hate myself. Hate this. Want it to stop. I don’t want this body. I don’t want this mind.

I don’t want this me.

I wish I could restart. I wish this would end.

End end end end end _end end end end_.

The door creaks open.

“Alan, I’m sorry,” she goes again.

“It’s not you,” I say.

She doesn’t reply.

I tuck my knees into my chest and hug them tight and hide my face away. If I can’t see her, she can’t see me. If I can’t see her, I can’t see how she sees me.

Mum lightly places a hand on my arm.

“The rice wasn’t poisoned.”

“I know.”

She wraps her arms around me, and I slowly register that it’s… a hug. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve the attention. I’m nothing but a burden on her life.

“You’re alright.” She’s running her fingers through my hair. “You’re alright.”

“I don’t know.”

She starts patting my back. “You feeling scared?”

“Kinda.”

“Of what?”

“It’s not like that.” I feel myself stiffen up. “I’m just scared.”

Then Mum has no more words. She’s like me, in that sense — we’re not wordy people. But she tries, and I don’t.

The silence expands, engulfing the both of us.

“You’re alright,” she says again. “You’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” I say.

I don’t believe her. I don’t believe her in the slightest. How could anything about me ever be okay? Ever?

“Okay,” I say again.

We stay like that for a while. It’s sweaty and uncomfortable and it starts to hurt because we’re sitting on the cold, hard bathroom tiles, but it’s also nice, in the weirdest way.

And I’m again reminded that Alan Giffard doesn’t deserve any of this.

I hate him so much. I wish I could leave him, just like Dad.

I pull away from Mum’s embrace. She breathes out.

“Want to finish dinner together?”

No.

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay.” Mum stands up. “You do have to eat, though. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she says, “come out when you’re—“

“I’ll follow you out.”

And then she smiles. A soft, small smile.

“Okay, Alan.”

 

We gather around the dinner table again. Mum clasps her hands together and puts her elbows down on both sides of her body. It’s an intervention. I’m either getting grilled or grounded.

“I…” She pauses, and she breathes, which is something I usually forget to do when I’m talking. “I’m worried about you, Alan.”

I know.

“I know.”

It feels like all she ever does is worry. It’s like a boulder sitting on my chest, unmoving, uncooperative, useless.

“I would like you to please talk to me.”

I sigh. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Of course there _is_ , Alan, I…” That word. ‘I’. She stops at ‘I’ again. “I know you’ve got words, so, please…”

“I don’t. There’s nothing to say.”

I don’t want to say anything. Not now.

Not ever.

“I don’t understand what is going on with you,” she says after a while.

“Nothing is going on with me.”

“Do you really think Dr. Singh tells me nothing?” she asks, her voice sounding like it’s coming out of a tight air balloon. “I know you’ve got problems.”

‘Problems’. I’ve got ‘problems’. I’m ‘broken’. I need to be ‘fixed’.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“You need to talk to me, please, Alan.” She sounds so desperate. I look down. “You need to talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

I sigh again. That’s all I do. I sigh, and I frown, and I cry—sometimes.

“Just tell me what I need to say to make you stop worrying.”

“It’s not like that, Alan.”

Oh. She used my words. Okay.

“I can’t just _stop_ worrying,” she says.

“Then I don’t get the point of this conversation.”

A sigh from Mum. “Alan, you’re being difficult.”

“I know.”

Mum stops her trail of words. Maybe we’ve reached the dip in silence again. I make to leave.

She suddenly throws her arm across the table. I jerk back before she can latch onto me.

“Alan—“

“There’s nothing to say.”

She latches on anyway.

“Please let me go.”

She doesn’t.

“Let me go, Mum.”

“Talk to me, Alan. Talk to me!”

“Let me go!”

She’s breathing heavily, but breathing nevertheless. “I’m your mother… I’m your mother…!”

Then she lets go. Guilt wells up in my stomach… like… like… I don’t know. Like the snake’s vomited all over it.

I sit back down, because it’s the very least I could do. Mum, on the other hand, decides to get up.

“Alan, I’m sorry,” she says again.

“It’s not you,” I say again.

 

I don’t feel comfortable in this house. Everything is so cold and empty. Just the sight of it makes me sick. And Mum’s off in the kitchen. And I start to think — if I don’t feel comfortable in my own home, just where can I go? I don’t belong here.

I wish today never happened.

I wish Mum never came back.

I wish tonight never happened.

I wish Mum didn’t have to work.

I wish this never happened.

I wish Mum didn’t have to come back.

I wish I never happened.

I wish and I wish and I wish.

Mum comes back over to the dinner table with my tattered backpack and her old, white carrier bags. Is she about to leave already?

I shoot a glance at the clock. Huh. I guess the only ‘already’ I should use is ‘already nine o’ clock and very late indeed’.

Mum sets my backpack on the table and starts to dissect it pocket by pocket.

“I’ve left some meals in the fridge,” she says as she hacks away at the bag. I look at the fridge; Mum checks my purse. “You really need to start using your coins, Alan.”

I look back over to see her picking out a few twenty coins. “I just forget to count them before I reach the counter.”

“You forget everything.”

I look down. She’s right. Maybe I need to start setting reminders on my phone. But I might end up forgetting to do that, too.

“There’s fifty dollars in case you run out.” Mum gives me a quick hug.

What do I say? Last week I said ‘cool’, which was stupid. She thought I was stupid. She looked at me weird.

‘Thanks’? Do I say ‘thanks’? What if it doesn’t sound right? What if I don’t sound thankful at all? She wouldn’t like that. What if I mess up? What if she feels insulted? What if—

The door slams shut. She’s gone. I didn’t say anything. I won’t see her again until next week. I messed up. That’s all I ever do.

I’m a failure.

 

Sometimes, I see bad dreams. Well, ‘see’ is subjective. I don’t really _see_ anything.

I hear.

I hear voices.

I hear a voice.

It’s mine.

_“You’re becoming more and more dislikable.”_

_“Why do you think Mum hates you so much?”_

_“That’s because you’re useless. You’re a burden.”_

_“Can you find one positive thing about yourself?”_

No…

_“No. Can’t even do that.”_

Sometimes, I don’t really understand how I can be so mean to myself. Don’t I feel bad about it? Why am I such a bully? I’m so selfish. Both of me.

But it’s just a bad dream, I tell myself.

It’s just a bad dream.

I can’t ever speak in these dreams, no matter how hard I try.

_“That’s because everything you’re hearing is true.”_

_“You’re so hopeless.”_

I’m… so hopeless.

_“You’re so pathetic.”_

I’m so pathetic.

_“Everyone hates you.”_

I know.

_“Amy’s just faking everything because she doesn’t want to be a bad person…”_

_“But you have no idea what she’s saying behind your back.”_

Amy… she… would she?

Of course she would. I don’t blame her.

I would do the same.

I’m doing the same.

_“Amy doesn’t care about you.”_

I know.

_“You deserve to suffer.”_

_“You deserve to be alone.”_

_“You deserve—”_

I… I can’t… I can’t breathe…

I jolt awake. I’m sobbing uncontrollably.

Everything feels so strange around me.

“N-No… No… Please…”

Everything is so cold and dark. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand this.

“These bad dreams…” I cling onto one of my plushies. I’ve done that since I was little. I wish Mum was here. I wish Amy was here.

“I— I wish—“

I wish Dad was here.

I’m trying not to make any noise. I’m trying to stop my tears. But I can’t breathe. Silent tears really are the worst.

I… I said I’d stop crying! I told Mum I’d be alright! I told Mum I’d be good! I… I…!

My pillow is drenched with tears. I want to vomit. My mind is making me suffer. _I deserve it_. I’m the one saying those horrible things to myself. Me. Me!

Why?

_Why?!_

“Amy… I…”

Don’t… Don’t say her name. Don’t say her name! You’ll taint it! All you do is mess up! You’re horrible! Horrible! So… so horrible! I hate you so much!

Why won’t you go away?! DISAPPEAR! Disappear and never come back! You should just… You should just—!

My mind is a mess. What is this? What am I feeling? It’s not sadness… Is it regret? Is it because I miss the old times? Probably because Mum came back today.

No… It’s not her fault. It’s mine. It’s always mine.

I feel so dizzy…

I take a second to breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.

_Do I deserve to breathe?_

No—what kind of stupid thought is that? I can’t control whether I breathe or not. It’s cardiac. Involuntary. I couldn’t stop breathing if I tried.

I feel like all I’m doing is staring at nothing. I feel lifeless. So I just stay there, on the floor. Nothing feels right. I don’t even feel at home.

I quickly glance at the clock.

“It’s late…”

It’s eleven already. I can’t go to school like this… I’m already two hours late. If I go, I’ll get questioned.

If I show up, Amy will worry.

If I don’t show up, Amy will worry.

It’s the same either way. In fact, she might not even care at all.

_In fact, she doesn’t care at all._

I’ve got no time to think about that. I need to breathe. I exit my house.

The air is fresh. I feel a bit better after going outside. I don’t think I can go to school right now. I need a break.

_You don’t deserve a break._

I need a break.

I shove down my hammering heart and place it on a short stroll. I can’t stay here any longer. I should go someplace nice. It’s not like anyone will need me today, anyway.

Where should I go, I wonder…

 

It’s been years since I’ve been to the river. Last time I went, actually…

It was with Dad. We’d spend our days making all sorts of contraptions with sticks and rocks. It was a battlefield. _Ready, Steady, Fire!_. We would hurl things like acorns at each other. And then Mum would find us at the park and she would very loudly say, “Well, well, well, what is this I’ve found?” and then Dad would fake surprise and I would fake surprise as Mum launched a pebble at us. And then we would all fall on a heap in the ground, laughing and smiling, and Mum would say, “Pizza?” and Dad and I would both cheer.

I both love and hate these memories. They make my heart light up, but also simultaneously send it writhing in pain.

I don’t play _Ready, Steady, Fire!_ anymore. Mum doesn’t find me at the park anymore. Mum doesn’t join in anymore. Mum doesn’t order pizza anymore.

I always find myself wondering what went wrong.

Dad would always take my hand and guide us towards the river, pointing out things on the ground as we went. He called himself my personal David Attenborough.

I fell in the river once. I thought I was going to die. But Dad jumped in there and saved me. I was such an inconvenience for him. I think he hated me, too. Maybe he only pretended to love me because he felt like he had to. Maybe that’s why he had to leave.

Mum always says it’s my fault he’s gone. She’s right.

I approach the fence. It was so hard to jump over this as a kid.

It’d be so easy to do it now.

It’d be so easy to fall and—

What— What am I thinking? No! No! I can’t even think things like that! I wouldn’t leave Mum behind! Even if she hates me, I can’t leave her! I would never do such a thing!

I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t…

Right?

_Wouldn’t you?_

I wouldn’t.

I would never.

I shake my head. I can’t stay here.

I think I should just go to school. I should be able to make it to school by lunch. Maybe I’ll be able to relax a bit with Amy.

My brain goes _you’re just using her_ _again_ , but I push it away.

 

Amy must be in class right now. I wonder if she thought of me at all.

Oh, what am I? An attention seeker? I hope she didn’t worry. I don’t want to annoy her any more than I usually do.

I wait down on the steps just outside class, and start to brainstorm some openers.

_‘Heya!’_

No. Too energetic. Weird.

_‘Wazzup?’_

I never say that.

_‘Hello, Amy!’_

I’ve been missing for three hours. I can’t just be so casual about it.

Maybe I should run around the building, and then when she’s out, I charge up to her, panting, sweating, saying that I’ve been chased by a monster all morning. And then when she asks what kind of monster, I cover my left eye and reply: “The monster… within myself.”

Haha.

An idiot like me can’t even be saved with medicine.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Crap. It’s a teacher, isn’t it? What am I going to say?

“Sorry, I was just out for a bathroom bre—“

“So, what was the holdup, hey?”

I look up.

Oh.

Crap.

“Yeah.”

Amy sits down next to me. “You can’t answer ‘yeah’ to a long answer question.”

“Yeah.”

She laughs. “Come on.”

“Umm…” I laugh as well. Quick. Salvage the situation. “Dentist’s.”

Oh. That came out alright. I might be semi-okay at lying.

“Aww,” she croons, gesturing to my mouth, “show me on these gums where the bad man touched you.”

I would flash her my whites and play along, but then I remember I haven’t brushed my teeth in days and she would get revolted and never talk to me again. So I just laugh. Again.

“Didn’t know dentist’s appointments took a whole morning,” she remarks as she sinks her teeth into what looks like a… ham sandwich. Ham and jelly. No comment.

“Eh, well,” I say in the vaguest way possible. I add a “you know” to make it seem maybe a bit less vague.

Amy shrugs.

I go to fiddle around with my bag the way I do whenever she eats and I don’t, but I… don’t… feel a bag. Oh no. I didn’t bring my bag. Amy catches on pretty quickly, too.

“So, where’s your bag, smarty?”

“Uh…”

“Forgot?”

“Maybe.”

She chuckles. “Okay.”

Something I’ve learnt about Amy is that she doesn’t interrogate me the way Mum does. It’s cool that she understands privacy and whatnot.

_Or maybe she just doesn’t care about you._

“If you haven’t got your bag, you haven’t got any money either, have you?” she’s saying.

“Oh…” That’s true. “Yeah.”

“You want some?” Amy digs around in her bag. “I usually bring about five dollars. That can buy you… uh… something? Probably.”

Oh. My heart thumps loudly in my chest.

_She’s so… kind…_

My cheeks are _burning_. I… Oh, god. I knew it. She’s too kind.

She’s just so… good… and I…

“Oh my god, Alan, are you crying?”

“No, I…”

I’m just so tired, and… and tired… and…

I almost don’t notice myself collapse onto her. She stiffens up immediately, and I realise exactly what kind of horrible stunt I’ve just pulled. What am I doing? What am I doing? _WHAT AM I DOING?_

_Get off her get off her get off her get off her. Get your disgusting body off her._

_You idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

I sit back up. My vision goes blurry. Dizzy. Dizzy.

Can’t see. Can’t think.

So… So tired…

“You okay?”

Can’t talk.

I stumble my way up.

“Sorry…” I rasp. “Have to… leave…”

“Oh my god, you’re really not okay, are you?”

Never okay.

“I’ll walk you to the office.”

_Don’t touch her. Don’t touch her. Never._

“No…” I use what little strength I have to shake my head. “I’ll go on my own.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

‘Off to the office.’

It’s kinda funny, but it’s kinda not.

 

I don’t remember the most of my office stay. I think I got an ice-pack (they always give you ice-packs), and then I blacked out, and then I awoke to Amy sitting beside the couch I occupied.

I blink wearily. Yeah… Yeah, that’s Amy, alright.

I mumble some kind of confused word, and Amy turns her head to me.

“Oh. You’re up,” she says. “Congrats.”

“Thanks.” I rub my temples. “How long have you been here?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worrying.”

“Only, like, five minutes or so.” She waves a hand. “Don’t sweat it.”

I’m sweating it.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Amy tilts her head towards the door. “Wanna leave? School’s out.”

“Yeah.”

She takes my hand in hers, and I follow her outside.

“Hey, Alan…” she starts to say, “why is it you never seem to eat?”

“Hmm?” I hmm. “I ate on Tuesday.”

“It’s been three days since Tuesday.”

“Hmm.” My mouth stretches into a flat line. “I ate the muesli bar yesterday.”

“No you didn’t.”

Yeah, I didn’t.

“I guess I…” don’t feel like I deserve food, “don’t really get hungry.”

“Huh.” She looks to the side, then back at me, squinting like she’s trying to solve the world’s greatest mystery. “You do eat breakfast, right?”

No.

“Of course I do.”

“Well,” she says, “that’s good.”

“Yeah,” I say, “it is.”

We make our way down the streets and I’m force-fed another spoonful of silence. I feel like I could throw up. I think… we’re a block away from my house. Maybe I’ll last. Amy hasn’t said anything, either. Is something on her mind? She’s not really paying attention to her surroundings.

We don’t always walk home together. In fact, it only happens once a month. It’s almost like a scheduled occurrence. Amy’s mum usually picks her up. Is she tired?

Is she tired of me?

No, you idiot, silence doesn’t always mean someone hates you.

_But you already know she hates you. “You have no idea what she’s saying behind your back.”_

But I didn’t even ask her to walk me home… she kinda just offered… wordlessly.

_You pressured her into it._

How?

_You pressured her into it._

I shake my head. Mission control can be absolutely irrational up there, sometimes.

Maybe it shouldn’t matter whether or not she hates me. I should just enjoy this moment while it lasts. Walking home with a friend. My best friend. My only friend. I should just forget about everything for a while.

I like it, anyway.

 _But does_ she _like it? Don’t you care about her wellbeing?_ Oh my god, why won’t you just shut up? _You know I’m right._ Shut up.

_Shut up._

“You okay, there, Alan? You’re almost home.”

I jerk my head up.

“Yeah, I’m good…” I shake my head again. Shaking clears up the fog, and I can think, alone, for a bit. “Umm… I was just thinking about something…”

“Yeah, we all think about things when we’re thinking.” She laughs, alone, for a bit. I don’t join, because I don’t get the joke. “Oh. Sorry. You were saying?”

“Uh,” crap, “I like how we get to… I-I mean…”

Wait, what am I saying? The situation just felt right, and… I wanted to know… I just need to know this one thing…

No, I’m just stupid! I’ll ruin everything! I—

“Do you… umm… _enjoy_ …” I wince, “walking home? With? Me?”

Amy blinks. _Nyeeeeeeeeeu… psssh_. There you go, you’ve crashed the plane. I’ve dug my own grave. I’ll never be able to speak to her again.

She looks very confused. I hate myself. Today was going just fine…

And then I let my selfishness ruin everything again.

Why did I even talk at all? I’m stupid. Stupid people don’t deserve to talk. I should’ve just kept quiet. What am I? An attention seeker?

I’m an attention seeker. Only attention seekers would ask that kind of question.

Then Amy laughs, and I look up in alarm. Oh no. She’s laughing at me. She thinks I’m weird. Just like everyone else.

“Yeah, I do.” She sounds so insincere. _That’s because she’s lying. She’s lying to make you feel better._ _“Amy’s just faking everything because she doesn’t want to be a bad person.”_

“Really?” I ask her, even though there’s no point. _Faking everything._

“Yeah.”

_Faking. Everything._

“Hahaha,” I say.

“What was that? A laugh?”

“It’s supposed to be a laugh,” I think I say, but I don’t hear it. Amy doesn’t respond, so maybe my mouth has betrayed me again.

I shake my head, slower this time, because if I go any faster I might actually throw up.

“Oh. It’s my house,” I announce to nobody. Amy isn’t even listening anymore.

We break off, and she doesn’t say goodbye.

 

My keys… in my pocket… I don’t fish them out. I don’t know why.

I just stand there, and I place my hands on the doorknob, and that horrible voice starts to whisper to me again.

_“Everyone is starting to hate you.”_

_“Why did you ask that question?”_

_“Why do you speak?”_

_“Why do you try?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why?”_

_Why?_

I step away from the door. I really don’t want to be in there alone again… I didn’t appreciate Mum while she was here… I miss her so much…

I rub my arms. I wish she’d… hug…

_No. Not again._

“I don’t… wanna go home…”

I don’t want to go in. What if it’s here? What if the thing I saw yesterday is waiting for me?

The thing in my nightmare… It was me, wasn’t it? I’m the horrible thing.

Ugh. I’m so tired of being paranoid. I don’t even feel strong enough to cry. I’m all out of tears.

I look around me. It feels like I’m being watched… I don’t like it. Is it that thing? But it was just a nightmare…

There has to be someplace where I can be alone, right? I can go home later. Nobody’s waiting for me there, after all. I think I’ll go lay down on the grass somewhere.

At least no one will bother me there. I’ll just walk around and pray to find a park or something.

 

There’s a slight cool breeze, and there’s nobody around. There’s total silence.

It’s just me… and my thoughts. I can never escape my thoughts.

I lay down on the grass and I stare at the horizon. I feel so weird… It’s a mixture of peace and pain. I can’t even tell if this is normal anymore. Do other people have to suffer like I do?

‘ _Suffer_.’ I don’t deserve to use that word, really. A lot of other people face things like war and famine and here I am complaining about being disliked by people who might not even dislike me at all.

I close my eyes. I wish I could fall asleep…

I don’t want to die. I just want to disappear until I’m okay again.

The sun starts to set, casting its brilliant rays on the trees standing tall above me. If only I could stay here forever.

Alone.

No mistakes. No problems.

Looking at the sky. Forever.

Would Amy start wondering where I am?

Would I just disappear out of everyone’s lives?

Would they forget about me?

Would anyone care at all?

Maybe… It’d be best for me to leave.

I’m allowed to think about this kind of stuff, right? There’s really nothing wrong with it. I know I won’t do it. I wouldn’t have the courage for that.

It’d just be… nothingness.

No more pain, no more questioning.

No more hiding.

No more suffering.

No more worrying.

The tree’s shadows extend over my face, and shield my vision for a moment. There’s no point in anything, but I feel slightly more… relaxed. I’m already dreading the thought of having to get up and leave the park, but I can see the Sun’s final cries dying out. The Moon bringing upon nightfall.

I sigh. I can’t stay out here too late…

_But why not? Who would worry?_

That’s right. No one. I think I might be right, here.

I could get kidnapped. I could get killed. I could get eaten alive, but no one would know, and no one would care. And when I’m gone, I’ll get replaced. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Of course there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll die alone.”

I shoot up. “Who was that? Who’s there?”

I look all around me. There’s… There’s no one here but me…

Right? I can’t see past the trees, but…

I recognise that voice. It’s the same one from the dream…

Mine.

Why do I keep saying these things to myself? What do I get out of it? Do I just want to see myself in pain?

Why would I do that?

What’s the point?

“Why do you keep doing this?”

No answer.

It… It’s so… dark… I like the dark… right?

I can hear my heart pounding deafeningly in my ears.

No… I’m scared. I’m really, really scared! I’m just so weak and tired and scared and I… I want to go home.

But what if it’s worse back there? What if I meet that thing again?

What if I start being mean to myself again?

I hug my knees. I was wrong. I was not out of tears. My skin is sweaty and soaked. I might have to go home. Maybe I could call Mum…

_And then what? Make her worry?_

Yeah, that’s right, too. I can’t be selfish. I can deal with this myself. I see Dr. Singh in two days, anyway. I can…

Who am I kidding. I can’t talk about it.

I get up. I wish I could stay here for longer, but I don’t want to face my fears again.

I exit the park, half-running.

I feel like I’m slowly becoming more and more insane. And the worst part is, I don’t even know why.

I can’t feel anything at all… I’m hearing things… I’m seeing things…

My mind is always thinking about horrible things. I’m always saying horrible things to myself.

I just want everything to be okay. But that might be too much to ask for.

 


End file.
